Bioshock Infinite: Aftermath
by Infinite Number
Summary: SPOILERS! A short story providing insights into the troubled life of Booker DeWitt, following the events of Bioshock Infinite. END SPOILERS!
1. Prologue

_"...sure?"_

_"Indeed miss, just have some faith."_

_"I-It's never been so bad before... I- I'm scared..."_

_"Nothing to worry about..."_

…

"Anna?" Booker clumsily waved his arm about until his daughter held on to it. His eyes flickered open and saw her leaning over his body, with a doctor standing above his head with a warm smile on his face. Booker became aware that he was currently collapsed in his bed and pulled himself up with some effort. Anna instinctively attempted to hold him up before Booker brushed her away and eyed the medic.

"I owe you my thanks."

"Mr. DeWitt! I only do what I need to do."

"How much will it be?" Booker sensed Anna stiffen beside him.

"Nothing, sir."

"Excuse me?" was the reply, accompanied by a snort.

"I only charge people who-" the doctor's eyes unintentionally passed over the shabby DeWitt residence, but centred on the owner's face when it became clear that DeWitt himself had noticed, "-aren't in any rush." He finished clumsily. "You should thank your daughter first sir; without her, well..." He shrugged his shoulders and bid farewell.

Booker closed the door on him with a sigh and turned to face Anna, who refused to look directly at him, opting to stare at her feet with a terrified expression on her face. Booker sighed again.

"I'm not angry with you Anna." She looked up.

"I'm sorry anyway," she began "I just didn't know what to do - you, you just woke up a few hours ago and began groaning, and..."

"That's what the medication is for, isn't it?" If Anna had called a doctor, simply for another of his fits...

"It was worse than before. Before, you'd just... It was worse than before." She finished simply.

Booker nodded. He couldn't remember what he'd done, of course not, but this wasn't the first time she'd overreacted. Of course, how could he fault her for caring for him, when he would have done the complete opposite if their roles reversed?

"Just be more careful next time, okay?" When Anna nodded without saying another word, he stepped closer and hugged her. Anna simply mumbled another apology as Booker let go. He looked at the time: nearing 3:30 in the morning. "When did it happen?"

"About two hours ago?"

"In that case, we'd better get as much sleep as can. Alright?"

"Yes, father."


	2. Hints

Booker awoke, pleasantly surprised to see Anna sitting at his bedside holding a cup of water for him. He accepted the drink and she went about setting the table for their breakfast. As he helped, he noticed how she moved with much less... grace than normal. His suspicions were confirmed as they sat down to eat and he glanced at her red eyes. "Anna," he began sternly "how long did you sleep?"

"I-I don't understand." She looked at him and her tiredness was all too clear.

"How long?" He repeated, louder.

"I don't think I did." Her response made her father groan and lean back in his chair. He looked at her, furious. "I don't need to be _coddled_, least of all by my daughter!" She looked down at her lap again and Booker regretted his words instantly. After all, she was the only person who would look after him. "Just, wait until I'm older?" His weak smile failed to brighten the mood and they had their meal in silence.

…

Anna's strange overprotectiveness of her father was both a blessing and a curse, particularly to a man who was mostly a stranger to such emotion. As such, her stubbornness in keeping him home to rest made him unable to form a coherent response.

"Anna, this is preposterous. You can't expect me to stay home because I had some sort of a nightmare?!"

"Father, it was more than just a _nightmare_! You told me - you told me that Saturdays were easy on you... that no one would mind if you took a day off."

"Yes, but that was when _you_ were ill. You can't expect me to," here he inadvertently yawned before continuing "take a day off for _myself_!"

In the end, he relented, cursing himself for spoiling his daughter as she made him rest in bed. He caught up on his sleep and awoke just as Anna left for "work": a temporary assignment of looking after neighbouring children to get enough money for a complete education. To pass the time, he picked up one of the many books he had purchased over the years, both for the amusement of the growing Anna, and to better himself; it was pointless to raise an intellectual daughter when he himself hadn't had a complete education.

It was as he was perusing a short novel that he was able to reflect on the day's events. He already knew he had been hard on Anna, but seeing her hurt face in his mind stung more than he could've imagined. Poor girl, he thought to himself. Following on from this was the revelation that this was the first he had truly been alone for an extended amount of time. Up until this point he'd been surrounded by soldiers, clients or colleagues - when he wasn't with Anna of course.

Anna. He missed her already. He thought for a moment before realising that part of him _enjoyed_ her coddling. He hadn't had someone devote so much attention to him since his childhood, and his actions as a teenager had put an end to that, and even his time with the love of his life had been soured by those deeds. Anna, however, had come at the tail end of the dark moment of his life, and was the reason that people even _spoke_ to him anymore. So it was no wonder that _he_ had coddled _her_, especially after ruining her childhood with his debt.

…

Shortly after this enlightenment came another attack. He had started a second book when it happened and he quickly moved to his desk, grabbed a pill and swallowed it dry. He glanced at the clock and grimaced. Anna would be home soon, and the first thing she'd see would be him bent over with headaches. The headaches that were hurting him now. He sat on his bed and tried to order his thoughts. Anna. Something about Anna. About letting her down. Of course! He'd just been thinking that! But, no. He'd done something else to her. What?


	3. Flashback

"_Why don't you call him by his first name?"_

"_Hmm?" Booker had been hoping for this moment, but had almost failed to notice that it had come._

"_H-he always calls you Booker, but you don't return the favour..."_

…

1909

It had been a surprise for both of them. It was a surprise for Anna because she had never heard of him. It was a surprise for Booker because, well, he quite simply hadn't seen it coming.

"Surprised, Booker?" was the first thing they heard when they opened the door.

"Slate?!" was the response as Cornelius walked into their humble home. He looked around and his eyes fell on the curious Anna. "And who might you be, little miss?"

"M-my name is Anna, sir."

"The legendary Anna DeWitt? I've heard about you!" Anna noticed her father grimace at this. Slate turned to the man for a moment before chuckling to himself. "You didn't tell her Booker? My name, Ms. DeWitt, is Cornelius Slate. I've _worked _with your father before, on a few projects, in the past." He stroked his beard, drawing attention to a scar along his cheek.

"What brings you here Slate?" Booker struggled to keep the venom out of his voice.

"I merely wanted to see my dear friend once again. Nothing wrong with that, is there ma'am?" This was directed at Anna, who nodded hurriedly. Slate guffawed once again as Booker quietly groaned.

When night fell after a day of listening to Mr. Slate discuss his various jobs since he and Booker had met, despite never answering her questions directly, Anna excused herself and went to bed. The men waited long enough for her to sleep, passing the time with small chat. Once enough time had passed, they shared a look that conveyed their current thoughts to one another, it lasted long enough for the meaning to get across, but too quickly for either party to realise that this bond, born on the battlefield, still lived. Booker started, "How did you find us, Slate?"

"You trumpeted on and on about joining the Pinkertons. I assumed you were still with them..."

…

Anna awoke to the sound of raised voices. It frightened her to hear the foul language her father was spouting at his friend, but, if Mr. Slate was his friend, why hadn't she known about him? She tried to ignore the shouting match, but one phrase froze her blood:

"Anna. _Pfft_. She... was the worst thing to happen to you, Booker!" Until this point, she had thought Slate to be a gruff, yet pleasant person, and had even laughed at his jokes.

Her father hadn't, had he?

It was with a mixture of rage, fear and simple curiosity that she tiptoed from her bed, slightly opened her door and looked through, tuning into the conversation again:

"I will. I will bring it up as many times as I want. Remember all your _admirers _from Wounded Knee? What would they think if they saw you now?"

"Slate... I'm warning you..." Slate laughed.

"Or what? The real Booker might, _might_, have scared me, but you? Ha! You lost my, _our_, respect the day you traded your badge for a milk bottle."

"I don't intend to change your mind, so don't come here expecting to change mine."

"Is that the best you can do, Booker?" Slate spat, "In that case -" He looked at the door standing ajar. Both men's eyes darted to the gap into the next room before Anna could move her head away. Booker cursed under his breath and opened the door as a tearful Anna gazed back with frightful eyes. He knelt in front of her, at a loss for words while Slate, still standing, sneered at the two of them. "Look at you. The Booker DeWitt I knew is dead, isn't he? No offence lady (at this, Booker stopped wiping Anna's tears away and clenched his fists), but you really are the worst thing in his life." Booker snapped, and lunged at his former friend, who side stepped him. Booker attempted to punch Slate, but the latter caught his wrist. "See Booker? You've gone soft on me!" When Booker successfully headbutted him he added "Still underhanded though!" He turned to Anna for the last time and what he said shook her to her core. "You like your daddy, Anna? Well, even when you were young, do you know what the "White Injun" did?"

"Get out of my home Slate!" Slate shrugged and went to the door. He finished his message before leaving, as if speaking to the door. "He killed people."

…

Booker slammed the door after him and turned back to see Anna looking aghast. He nervously stood in front of her and waited for her to speak. "How many?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How many people did you... kill?"

"You believe him?!"

"People talk, _father_, and sometimes I listen." Booker sat down on a chair and put his head in his hands. He had honestly thought this day would never come, and had no idea how to start. At least, at 17, his daughter was old enough to understand what she was asking for. Or at least, older than he was when he became the White Injun. He looked up at her and motioned for her to sit on his bed. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything." Booker nodded and told her his story. Of how he had grown up with a sense of national pride. How he had been all too eager to become a soldier. How he had been ridiculed for having Native American ancestry and how the ridicule was well-founded (that he told her this surprised even him). He told her what had happened at Wounded Knee, and how he had attempted to wash away his sins, before succumbing to his own violent nature and become a Pinkerton. Admitting that he had stayed a Pinkerton even after Anna's birth and her mother's death hurt him, and only served to darken Anna's scowl.

"You aren't a Pinkerton anymore." It was a statement, yet also a question.

"I was in debt, Anna. A lot of debt. In fact- there was a time when I seriously cons- considered..." he sighed. That story wasn't meant for today. "There was a turning point in my life," he started slowly, "and I decided that you deserved more than what I could give you at that point, when you were one."

"And?"

"It was tough, but I gave in my badge, and tried to juggle being a PI with some other job. Many jobs, in fact, but, that's not what you were asking, was it?"

Anna remained motionless before she muttered "You're a monster." She got up and glided to her bed, slamming the door in Booker's face. It took him a few moments to understand what had happened before he groaned to himself and sat down again, this time in a complete slump.

…

Anna couldn't sleep. Her thoughts were utterly confused as she tried to make sense of the changes to her world. Her father was a Pinkerton. She knew that already, and that they were known for brutality. Until Slate's visit, she had assumed that that brutality was a part of every Pinkerton except her father. Her father was strict at times, yes, but he was also loving in a way no other father could be, and... was that music?

It was! It was the sound of a man plucking at a guitar's strings in the adjacent room. Her father had bought himself the guitar for one of her earlier birthdays, and had serenaded her while she pretended to dance, and had even accompanied her childish singing. At other times, when they'd had a fight, he would quietly play a rhythm that conveyed his moods, and Anna would complete this "ritual", by sitting with him as he did so.

Times like this.

She silently got up and opened the door. Booker looked at her with a relieved smile, but she ignored this and sat on his bed, still trying to master her emotions. Booker kept playing, hoping she'd speak up before long...

…

"Why don't you call him by his first name?"

"Hmm?" Booker had been hoping for this moment, but had almost failed to notice that it had come.

"H-he always calls you Booker, but you don't return the favour..."

"Oh!" Booker stopped playing as he considered his answer. "Well, Slate was always more of a gentleman, while I was just... the _boy_ or _freak_ trying to fit in. The rest of us, we weren't no gentlemen." Booker stopped as he noticed the use of double negatives. He realised that he'd spent several years trying to improve his language in order to be a good role model for Anna, and one visit from Slate...

…

"Anna?"

"Yes?"

"I don't know what I'd be without you. All I know is that I wouldn't want to be there." It felt a lame thing to say, but he had nothing else to give to her. "You know that, don't you?" Anna gave him a long look.

"Anna? I'm so sorry. Please, talk to me."

She gave him a small teary, smile. Booker felt his spirits soar as Anna went to sleep. He put the guitar down and lay down in his own bed. His last thought before he too, drifted off?

"_She forgives me."_


	4. Remnants

"Father? We need to talk."

"Why?"

"You've been acting... strangely lately."

"Oh?"

"I'm not quite sure how to begin..."

What could she say? That his recent purchases had raised many an eyebrow? The fact that he'd been far too overprotective of her for the past week, even more so than usual? She decided to start with what she could see. "Your recent... reading habits, for example." She pointed at the book that Booker was, even now, peering into.

"I've just decided to... broaden my horizons, is all. Just like you've always told me to."

"But, it's not really something that interests you, is it?"

"I'm reading it, aren't I?"

"Do you understand it?"

Booker looked at her briefly, with the queer gaze he'd given her continuously since his "accident". He sighed, closed the book, then chuckled. To Anna's own inquisitive look he replied "You've just reminded me of a theory in here," he nodded at the book as he put it down, "but you're already quite - boyish..."

Anna was puzzled at this odd remark and decided to try a different track. "Forget science then. Why the obsession with travel? It's not something we could afford any time soon." As always, money was a harsh topic for her.

"I just want to know more about the world around us, don't you?"

"Is that why you've spent a week learning how to pick locks?"

Booker stopped. Unable to give a proper answer, he shrugged. "So, do you have anything to say about me learning about codes?"

"That actually fascinates me as well. But, just one more thing." She drew attention to what she'd been holding in her hand for quite a while "Why cotton candy?"

It was odd. One day, once she'd returned from her busy schedule, her father had suddenly asked her to accompany him on a walk. He'd remained mysterious about it until they'd arrived at a cotton candy vendor, at which point he'd bought 2 cones with strangely childish glee. Anna would have been surprised, as he no doubt expected her to be, except she'd outgrown her sweet tooth as a child. Now they were seated outside a reasonably well-off cafe, drawing angry looks for the owner due to the "outside food" they'd brought with them.

Booker met her query with a second uneasy silence, and she got the sense that he was keeping something from her. The primary feeling his face betrayed, however, was guilt.

"Father, I'm not at all worried about what happened back then."

"About the- me shouting at you?"

"Yes."

"It's... not about that."

Having finished their snacks, they left for home. As Anna went to change into a new set of clothes, Booker sat at his desk and smiled to himself. Of course he had a reason for these _strange _behaviours and it was most likely the same reason he and Anna were together, but how could he expect anyone to believe him?

…

October 10th, 1983

"Where have you been DeWitt?" A strong hand clapping his back, Booker sat down at the bar. His friend, already surrounded by empty bottles, was in a cheery mood.

"I've... had a lot of thinking to do."

"Heh, anyone else want to break your fingers?"

"No."

"You've paid 'em all off, have ya?"

"No."

"Then what? Pink's want another favor from ya, Booker?"

"No."

To this, his friend laughed and passed the bottle he'd just opened to him. "Drink up fella'! That'll get you talking!"

"I've quit." Booker was met with a puzzled silence.

"Since when?"

"For about a day or two."

"What happened?"

"Don't want to talk about it."

"Well," Booker braced himself as his former drinking buddy leaned forward conspiratorially "remember the Oldies?"

Yes he did. Booker had often laughed at the expense of the childless couple who often drank away their sorrows. "What about them Frank?"

"Well. They're still open to that offer. If I were you-" At this point Booker had slammed his head into the table in front of him. Not wanting to answer to any of the accusatory glares in his direction, he quickly left.

…

"So."

"Not much more to say really."

"I think there is. You aren't exactly explaining yourself well are you?"

"Don't need to."

"You haven't even been here for two years, and you want to throw it all away?"

"Yes."

"And I'm expected to just let you leave?"

Booker casually tossed his badge onto the man's desk and walked away.

"Booker! What's this I hear about a debt? I thought you liked our salary?"

Booker paused at the door and sighed. He turned around and said "I'll pay it off. But not like this." He motioned around the room. When the door slammed shut, Harold Langston sighed and made a note for himself. Booker DeWitt (DeWitt of all people!) had just left the Pinkertons.

…

All for a noble reason of course. Booker sadly walked into his humble home. As he closed the door, he decided to put the gloom of his past behind him, and concentrate on the gloom of the future. He walked into the second room as he continued his train of dejected thought. At least he had someone to take him through the rest of his life.

He stood before Anna's sleeping form and smiled, despite himself. He pulled up a chair and sat over her, letting his thoughts overcome him, helping him plan a course of action. He unconsciously resumed his new habit of holding his daughter by her little finger, as if to see if it (as well as _she_) was there. Doing so, he let his recent nightmare come to the fore of his mind.

…

July 13th 1912

Booker quickly awoke from his reverie with a jolt. He glanced at the room around him and chuckled at the sight of the plants he'd bought for the window. Anna hadn't complained about _that_. He looked at the few shattered locks on his bed, as well as the various ciphers he'd tried to memorize. He thought about his newfound sweet tooth, an odd trait for a 38 year old. He looked at the book in his hand. She was right: he didn't care much for physics. At first he'd bought the book because he found the thought of a female Slate to be disturbingly hilarious, but now he felt a strange sense of familiarity regarding the author's name.

In the moments before Anna emerged, he cast his mind back to the previous week, when the phrase that had tormented him in 1893 had returned, hopefully for the last time.

"_Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt."_


	5. Answers

_Panic. First and foremost, as Booker DeWitt was woken from his nightmare. He staggered to his desk and clumsily knocked over something in his haste as Anna quickly burst into his room, as if she had never even slept. With her holding him up, he downed a pill and sat on his bed, gasping for breath. He put an arm around Anna as she joined him with a reassuring smile, before wiping away the symptom that she'd grown to dread._

_Blood from his nose._

_After catching his breath, he ordered her to her room and stood guard over her as she drifted off to sleep, not wanting a repeat of the catastrophe of 5 months ago. Still shaking from the vividness of the dream, Booker went back to sleep._

_In the morning, he decided to take another day off of work, instead planning to read up on the various notes he'd accumulated. A pleased Anna bid him farewell as she left for her day of education._

…

"Anna? Is that you?"

"... Yes. How are you feeling?"

"Where did you get that dress?"

"You don't remember?"

"Remember?" Then it hit him. "_No..._"

…

_He had collapsed on July 6th. This was when Anna had run for a doctor. Booker's recollection of the event began to fill fix itself, but in a strange manner._

"...wipe away the debt. Bring us the girl... and wipe away the debt."

"_Anna! Where are you?!"_

"You're quite fond of this theory of yours."

"_Father! Please - please stay with me!"_

"He DOESN'T row."

"_It's not working! Father, stay calm! Stay calm!"_

"Ascension... Ascension... Ascension..."

"_I can't do it! I - I'm going to get some help!"_

_Then there was the memory he already had, albeit partially._

"_It's hardly a medical matter at all."_

"_Are you sure?"_

"_Indeed miss, just have some faith."_

"_I-It's never been so bad before; usually it's just nosebleeds, and some mumbling no and then. I- I'm scared..."_

"_Nothing to worry about. All we need now is some time. The brain adapts."_

…

_Then, there was the cause for his current predicament._

_He'd finished a report he'd been given and had filed it away. He'd congratulated himself on his fast progress and had jumped at the sound of high heels on his wooden floor. There was Anna, looking expectantly at him, but why did this cause him so much pain? Before collapsing, Booker's mind noted a few possible reasons:_

_The door hadn't opened._

_Anna was wearing clothes that he would never be able to afford for her._

_She was missing a finger._

_He _knew_ why she was missing that finger._

…

"Elizabeth." Her face reflected his own emotions. That of shock.

"Yes."

Booker pulled himself off of her lap, but stayed seated on the ground. His memory was woefully incomplete, but he knew enough to know that she would hate him. "I sold you, didn't I?" She nodded. "Booker, you also spent 19 years suffering for it." She held his right hand and, for an instant, he saw her initials branded into it.

"What happened? All I remember is destroying the Siphon. The - the songbird came after us and you opened a hole - no, a tear, and that's it."

"I don't think you should." She fiddled with her thimble, not wanting to meet his gaze.

"Tell me."

So she did. She told him about Songbird's death at the bottom of the ocean. About the lighthouses. How Booker had forgotten that he'd sold her and finally, what she had done."

"I killed you, father." She closed her eyes, tears escaping nonetheless as Booker hugged her.

Elizabeth continued between sobs, "I don't know what to do with myself. I hate my life, my tears, everything!"

"At least... did you go to Paris?"

"I came straight here. I don't _want _to go to Paris anymore. That was childish of me."

"I would have taken you, you know."

"Yes. Next you'll ask if we can go now, but I don't want to. I'm sick of everything. I don't _want_ to see the future, the past. I just need to lie down somewhere and... pretend I don't exist."

"Or you could stay here."

"The _real_ Anna wouldn't find it comfortable, just like you when you came to save me. Besides, how would you explain a... a twin to those around you? Or to her?"

"I'm not letting you go to some _lighthouse_ when - I'm not a good father, or a well-off man, but we'll manage."

"I'm fine. Really, I am."

"Then why did you come here?"

"I just want an ordinary day for once in my life."

Booker gave her a warm smile. He walked to a pile of books and brought one over to her. He turned to a page he'd once seen her use an entire chalkboard to understand. "Care to explain this cipher to me?" Anna, Elizabeth, whoever she was, returned his smile and picked up the pen he'd dropped...

In the evening, Elizabeth kept glancing at the clock on Booker's wall, eager to avoid Anna. He struggled to comprehend his feelings. He didn't want her to leave, yet didn't want Anna to experience the same - discomfort- he once had. Elizabeth explained that she couldn't simply merge or replace her because she was too different, with her 9 digits and powers, and because the result would be too unethical to even consider. Despite trying, Booker was unable to convince her to stay, _in some form_, and sadly accepted her explanation of her unbalancing the universe. It was with a broken heart that he turned to the sound of Anna knocking at his door. Elizabeth wordlessly gave him a hug before he opened it. Anna walked it, oblivious to the events of the day, and merely raised an eyebrow at the numerous books and pens that littered the floor.

Booker DeWitt had accepted that, in some ways, his debt would never be repaid. But he was content with his relationship with Anna. Although he would never forget Elizabeth, he was determined to make her proud. He _would_ raise Anna with all the love he could muster. He turned to his desk and noticed two objects he hadn't noticed before. He laughed, knowing that Elizabeth would be looking out for the two of them after all. He turned to his daughter with his arms outstretched, palms facing upward.

"Bird... or the cage?"


End file.
